


Broken boy soldier

by When_Tommy_Met_Alfie



Series: When Tommy met Alfie AU [8]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Season/Series01 AU, Strong Language, Tumblr Ask Box Fic, wtma AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2019-03-11 13:38:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13525416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/When_Tommy_Met_Alfie/pseuds/When_Tommy_Met_Alfie
Summary: Tommy’s refusal to deal with the events of the war catches up with him, leading to a fight with quite disastrous results, a few months into his relationship with Alfie.





	Broken boy soldier

Alfie Solomons has quickly realised that being involved with Thomas Shelby means fighting a constant battle to just keep him alive. And not only in the business sense of things, what with Billy Kimber and Darby Sabini and all the other men that circle him like vultures. No, most of all, Thomas Shelby is a hazard to himself.

Tommy doesn’t eat. Alfie notices this quite soon into their… affair? Tryst? Business deal with benefits? Whatever the fuck it is at that early point. The first time he spends a few consecutive days at Alfie’s house, about a month after that first kiss in the office, Alfie picks up on it. Unless he makes food and puts it in front of him and then fucking sits with him throughout the entire meal, Tommy just seems to… forget to eat. As if food is below him. As if needing such a human thing clashes with the whole ‘ethereally beautiful but somehow still lethal’- image he’s crafted for himself.

Tommy doesn’t sleep. Takes about as much time as the food thing to notice. Fucking impossible to keep him in bed. Always gone before Alfie wakes up. He’s not a fucking idiot, even though Tommy seems to believe that. Alfie knows that on some nights he just waits until he’s fallen asleep, and then slips out of bed to spend the night on the couch. To not wake him up when the nightmares start. Sometimes he lies awake, then goes down there to sit with him. Pretends that he’s having a bad night too. Works sometimes.

Tommy drinks for two, despite having absolutely no tolerance for alcohol, due to the aforementioned afflictions. And breathes more cigarette smoke than actual air. Substitute for food perhaps, constantly having one of those between his lips. 

Tommy is violent. Because he wants people to be violent in return. Sometimes, Alfie is thinks perhaps that’s why he’s chosen Alfie. Because part of him hopes that Alfie –who yes, is a quite violent man- will hurt him. But if you’ve got a fucking broken vase that’s all jagged pieces stuck back together very poorly, you don’t feel very tempted to break it again, do you now? What would the fucking point be? No, you hold that thing real careful and gentle like, as if it were some injured bird that’s fallen out of its nest. Try not to do more damage. Try not to cut yourself on all the sharp edges.   

Tommy tries to work himself to death. Which is why he, despite being the boss of it all, does so much of the legwork for the bookmaking business. Sure, not completely trusting John or Arthur to come through – _and ain’t that a whole other thing, too?-_ might have something to do with it. But Alfie is rather sure it comes down just as much to Tommy’s desire never to have idle hands for too long. Not without a distraction -Alfie has found that he is deemed a worthy such. When he’s not around, God knows what Tommy gets up to. That’s why it’s sort of a relief that those weeks become fewer and more far apart as the months pass. 

Yeah, all in all, Tommy is -despite Alfie’s best efforts- doing quite a good job at slowly killing himself. And Alfie is pretty sure a lot of it comes down to the war. Sure, Tommy is a restless soul, probably always was, even before all that shit with the tunnels and shovels. But these habits, again, that he definitely has a leaning towards naturally, they are a crutch. Distractions to keep his demons from catching up to him. 

Alfie likes to think of the brain as just another organ –it malfunctions sometimes, and when it does, bad shit happen. But there are fucking remedies, right? Things that help keep the wiring in order. Eating, sleeping, looking at a fucking dog once in a while. Talking. Getting blackout drunk and crying in a dingy pub with some other poor sod who’s been through the same shit. Alfie has done all those on occasion, to wrap his head around the war. And yeah, maybe he’s a deranged fuck, but at least he’s handling this whole thing a lot better than other people. _Maybe it’s even on account of that_? And by people, he means Tommy. 

Tommy, as far as he can see, does absolutely none of those things. 

He is happier now, granted. Happy, even, a lot of the time, it would seem. Smiles and laughs a whole lot more. Has his guard down every once in a while. Alfie will take all the credit for that. But these self-destructive tendencies that seem to have ingrained themselves in Tommy’s backbone, they appear harder to shake. And fuck, he’s is a grown man, of course he can drink, work, smoke and never sleep if he wants too. But Alfie would like for him to at least admit to using these things as coping mechanisms to some extent. For him to acknowledge that they’re symptoms of something. For him to _fucking talk about it_. Maybe it won’t fix things, but it sure would make shit a whole lot easier.

Because then there’s that last thing: Tommy pushes people away. This, Alfie notices slowly over the course of the first six months. Little things, that Tommy does every once in a while, as if to test him: _What will it take for you to leave too?_ Like being quiet for a bit too long without seemingly any reason, or just indulge in all of those destructive habits that fucking gets on Alfie’s nerves: the whole not eating, sleeping, resting-circus. Because he seems to think that will throw a wrench into things. As if he every now and again feels that things are perhaps a bit too good, and good things don’t last.

Bad luck then, that the only bastard more stubborn than Tommy Shelby, is Alfie Solomons.

So things are good. Not all the time. But a surprising fucking amount of it, considering the kind of people they both are. 

But six months into this… relationship… yeah, at this point this it’s definitely a relationship, because Alfie may be many things, but he is neither oblivious nor a fucking idiot. When you split your time between two cities, but are rarely apart, it’s a fucking relationship, alright? And you fuck, and bicker, and talk, and laugh, and spend way too much time with some chaotic family you never asked for, but somehow has learned to live with, it’s a relationship.

Well, six months into it: things go awry.

... 

It’s another one of those nights. The bad ones.

Alfie wakes up in the middle of the night for some reason, to find Tommy’s side of the bed empty. Sighing, he swigs his legs over the edge and goes to search for his missing partner. He pulls on a vest and a pair of slacks, on account of his house being freezing at night, and then ventures downstairs. He finds Tommy in the living room, smoking what appears to be at the very least his sixth cigarette, judging by the pile accumulated on the ashtray.

“You can’t keep doing this.” 

Usually, he handles it differently. But maybe the circles under Tommy’s eyes are just a bit darker tonight, his gaze a bit more haunted, or his cheeks a bit too hollowed in the dimmed light, and it all feels a bit fucking hopeless for a moment. He is met by that bloody silence, as Tommy taps the ash from the cigarette. 

And Alfie is suddenly all out of patience. 

“Oi, I’m fucking talking here!”

When Tommy still opts for ignoring him, Alfie gets angry. And it’s that dangerous sort of anger, that simmers right under his skin, up to his brain. Makes it hard to think clearly. The sort that usually results in absolute disaster. 

In two long strides, he is stood towering over him by the couch and snags the cigarette right out of his hand. 

“You will fucking look at me when I speak to you!” 

Tommy just gazes with disinterest at some spot on the floor 

“Shouldn’t you be sleeping?” he asks coly, still without sparing him a look.   

Alfie scoffs. “Oh, look who’s talking. Ironic, isn’t it?”

Tommy leans against the back of the couch, pulls one of his legs up to his chest and starts picking at an invisible thread in the trousers. Alfie grits his teeth. Wills himself to fucking _keep it together_. Because if he doesn’t this will end in absolute disaster.

“You can’t keep fucking doing this, Tommy,” he says, somehow managing to keep his voice somewhat calm. “When was the last time you spent an entire night in bed, eh? Fucking weeks ago. What sort of behaviour is this, running off in the middle of the night to sulk on my couch and get ash all over my rug? Don’t you think I get that this is about the nightmares? Would it kill you to just elbow me in the ribs and let me know you need someone to hold on to for a while?” 

“I don’t need you,” Tommy says, in that cold, dejected voice that he hates. 

Nights are not meant for these sorts of things. Strange things happen to the brain at night.

Alfie snaps just a little.

“Right. Of course you don’t,” he spits. “Tommy Shelby needs no-one but himself, that’s how it is, innit? I get it, hard to trust people when you’re walking around with all those broken pieces chafing in weird places. Because what if someone touches you the wrong way and one of them fucking raptures your spleen or something? God forbid that a petty business like war will scratch that indifferent façade you put up.” 

He should sit down, get on Tommy’s level instead of towering over him like this. But Alfie suddenly just wants to be as imposing as possible, to somehow force Tommy into… something. The way he can with everyone else. Scare him into submission. So he stays where he is. And can’t keep his voice under control. 

“But you listen to me now, yeah? This will fucking kill you. Not talking about it. Not even fucking acknowledging that it ever happened. It happened, alright, and it was shit. For all of us. But we’re alive, right, so we’ve got to deal with it.” 

Tommy stands up suddenly. Distances himself by taking a few steps away from Alfie and crossing his arms over his chest. A faint, scornful smirk twists his mouth. 

“This wasn’t really part of the deal.”

“What fucking deal?” 

“The partnership. The business deal.” Tommy gives a shrug. “Can’t remember walking into your office and asking for a fucking therapy session.” 

“Oh, so it’s a _business deal_ now?” Alfie growls. “This thing, what we’re doing, it’s just business, innit? When you let me fuck you, and be all gentle and sweet with you? When you want me to hold you afterwards? Just business?”

“Sure. Business.” Tommy’s eyes are cold. “And sex. Not like I haven’t mixed the two before. Think you’re the first man I’ve spread my legs for to gain something? 

 _This is what he does_ , a small part of Alfie tries to argue. _It’s just another one of those things._

But the more dominant part is just absolutely fucking livid. And he feels himself raising his hand –it’s just an instinct, his brain telling his hand that’s what you’re supposed to do when your fucking head is about to implode- and the second he realises what he is about to do, he lowers it again. It doesn’t mean anything.  He would never lay a hand on Tommy in anger. Even though it feels a bit like he’s just been punched in the gut. For a moment, an awful image of Tommy sprawled on the floor, clutching a painfully throbbing cheek flashes before his eyes. He glances down at his hands and discovers he’s forgotten to remove his rings. They would’ve fucking crushed one of those delicate cheekbones. 

Tommy stares at him, and something insane glints in the blue eyes. 

“Oh, what’s with the hesitation? Go ahead. Hit me. I can see that you want to.” 

“I’m not going to fucking hit you.” Alfie lowers his voice again, tired, all of a sudden. 

Tommy on the other hand, who so rarely gets riled up, is breathing harshly through his nose. 

“Why not?” That manic spark in his eyes is still there. “Think I’ll shatter into little pieces if you do?”

“Yeah. I do.” Alfie says exactly what he’s thinking. “But maybe that’s what you want. For me to hurt you.” 

“What I want, is for you to not look at me as if I’m some pathetic, broken thing that you’re going to put back together!” Tommy is shouting now. “I don’t need your fucking pity! And I don’t need you!” 

Now, its Alfie’s turn to be silent. For a little while, all that's heard is the faint sound of a car engine on the street outside. And Tommy’s breathing. 

“Fucking say something! You’re always running your mouth.” Tommy stares at him with a look of utter loathing. “Or is the great Alfie Solomons finally out of witty remarks?” 

The ashtray comes hurtling through the air, and Alfie just barely manages to dodge it. It slams into the wall and shatters. 

“Go ahead. Fucking hit me!” There is a desperation to Tommy’s voice he’s never heard before. As if something that is always buried deep under all those layers of wit and charm is clawing its way out of his chest. 

When Alfie neither moves, nor says anything, Tommy deals with the situation the only way he knows how and runs. 

Alfie thinks about grabbing him as he brushes past him and disappears out in the hallway, but that image - _Tommy on the floor, him with bloodstained rings_ \- flashes by before his eyes and makes his arms drop uselessly at his sides. He can never let that happen. 

Maybe part of him is afraid that if he’ll hold on just a bit too tightly if he tries. 

He follows Tommy out in the hallway and watches as he pulls his boots on. Suddenly overwhelmed by this feeling of utter helplessness, the anger just rushes to his head again. 

“You know what, go ahead and leave!” He raises his voice again. “This is just business to you? Just fucking? Have it your way. I don’t put up with this shit from other people, why should I put up with it from you, just because you happen to be a good fuck?” Alfie knows he’s ruining this, but his mouth is just moving on its own accord. “Take your broken fucking head and get out. Go and fucking drown yourself in a bottle somewhere. You can drink yourself to death for all I care. Fucking insane, you are.” 

Tommy doesn’t even turn around to acknowledge he’s heard him. The door rattles in its frame as he slams it shut behind him. 

Alfie snags the nearest object, an innocent table lamp, and hurls it at the door, making it shatter into a thousand tiny pieces. 

...

Tommy walks through the night streets of London in a complete blur. 

At first, he is absolutely furious. With Alfie, for not leaving well enough alone. With himself, for losing control. With the war, for turning him into this.

He doesn’t know what to do with it –the war. The memories of it. Everything else is part of this well put together, meticulously planned game, where every move has a point. And he makes all of them with equal conviction. Things have a purpose, and can be used. This _feeling_ doesn’t. He can’t use the war for anything, with the possible exception of it making everything else seem trivial and meaningless. Once you’ve died, there really is nothing left to fear. 

But then Alfie had to go and ruin that. Alfie, who is funny and loud and outspoken and warm and everything Tommy is not. Who has scraped away at the carefully crafted walls he’s put up. And now he is suddenly desperately afraid of so many things: wanting him, needing him, losing him. Of Alfie discovering that he’s just barely managed to put himself back together, and that nothing about him is good, or lovable. Seems like he’s managed to show him exactly that. 

He said awful things, until Alfie said them back. 

He’s fucked everything up. Him and his broken fucking head. 

Why is he shaking? Is he cold? He can’t really feel his own skin- He’s not wearing his coat. Nothing but his trousers and undershirt. Explains why it’s so cold. Or is it cold? He can’t tell. 

He needs something to numb himself with, right this second. Something, anything, to make this feeling go away. His heart is beating wildly in his chest. No, not his chest; his throat. It’s suffocating him. 

Opium, morphine, alcohol- anything to make him stop feeling this way. 

He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, and finds himself biting the knuckles of his hands as he walks. 

Alfie is right. He’s insane. 

Who is Alfie to talk about insanity? 

Tommy is spiralling. Quickly. On some level, he can feel it happening. Can feel that he is losing grip, with every step he takes. 

He ends up at the brewery –yeah, because it’s a fucking brewery- fucking Alfie and his crazy ideas. There are two men there, he can’t remember their names right now. Can’t seem to remember much at all. He vaguely recalls him and Alfie speaking about it, that they need to have people guarding the place at night, what with the Italians causing trouble again. Apparently Sabini has come in contact with people in a whole other league –there are whisperers of the New York mafia on the streets… Why is he thinking about this now? Because it’s business. And that’s about all he can handle. All his head is good for. 

The men –whatever their names are- look at him as if he’s a ghost as he walks past them. One of them says something, but Tommy just ignores him. 

Alfie’s office. He must have something here… morphine, opium, anything… 

There are lot of places to search through. 

There’s a knock on the locked door. He must be making a racket. But every sound is drowned out by his own heartbeat and it won’t fucking stop and he is going to die if it keeps beating this hard and he’s going to die if he keeps feeling like this and- 

Of course Alfie is the only man in this business of theirs that doesn’t keep anything of use in his fucking office. Even the bottle of whiskey in his desk drawer only allows for a few mouthfuls. It’s not enough, not enough and he still feels far too much. _You can drink yourself to death for all I care._

He looks down at his hands, and can suddenly not recognize them as his own. Why are they all bloody?

He’s in a fucking brewery. Of course there’s alcohol. But he can’t seem to focus enough to get out of Alfie’s office. Alfie. Alfie has to come here and be here and put him back together because he’ll fucking die if this goes on much longer and he can’t breathe and he’s breathing but no air reaches his lungs and Alfie has to-

God if his heart doesn’t stop racing he'll- 

...

It takes about one hour before Alfie gives up on his plan to just let Tommy end up passed out in some alley. Because apparently, this is the kind of man he is now: the kind who just forgives his crazy partner for spewing bullshit and throwing ashtrays and giving him grey hair. He’ll forgive every single fucking thing if Tommy just comes home in one piece. 

One call to Ollie, and he has people out looking all over town.

Only minutes after Alfie’s call to Ollie, the phone rings again. Eli is on the line.

“Hey there, boss-man, sorry to bother you Sir. But we got word from Ollie and-”

“You have exactly ten seconds to get to the fucking point, Eli.”

“Mr. Shelby is at the bakery, in your office. Think you ought to come down. He seems to be in some kind of way.”

Alfie has already hung up. Thank fuck his employees are more afraid of him than Tommy.  

The way to the bakery has never felt this bloody long before. 

He should’ve asked Eli to get to Tommy, hold him down, make sure he doesn’t do anything that will make Alfie regret every single word he’s said this night. Regret them, he does. But there’s a definite risk that will turn into a lifelong burden unless he gets to the bakery quickly enough.

Still takes almost twenty minutes, and upon entering, he finds David and Eli standing outside his office door like two fucking morons. 

“What are you doing standing around here for?” 

“The door is locked.” David has an incredibly stupid fucking face, Alfie thinks. 

“Well fucking break it down, you absolute fucking idiot!” He snaps, which instantly causes them to get to work. But the moment after he’s said the words, Alfie changes his mind. He’s got no idea what he’ll find behind that door, and if it the worst comes to pass, he’d rather not have Eli and David breathing down his neck.

“Fuck, forget it. Get off. Go home. Scram.” He waves a hand dismissively, and both men turn to leave. He catches Eli by the collar. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you, but if you ever mention this to anyone I will fucking end you in the most painful way possible.” They scurry off. 

Alfie has kicked down a door or two in his days, so it doesn’t take long. 

He enters, finds the light switch, and as the light flickers to life it reveals his office to be in absolute shambles.

There are papers, furniture, pretty much any object not fucking fastened to a wall, strewn about the room. As if a fucking storm has ripped through it. 

In one of the corners, he finds Tommy, slumped against the wall with one leg outstretched and arms wrapped tightly around his abdomen. Red lines streak his lower arms where the nails have dug into the skin. His eyes are fixed on something on the opposite wall, unseeing. 

“Tommy? You here?” Alfie kneels in front of him. 

Tommy says nothing, but this time it seems to be because he can’t actually hear him. His breathing comes in short, shallow gasps, and every single muscle in his body seems to be wound tight enough to snap. 

“Hey, try to focus.” Alfie grabs his shoulders, shakes him just a bit. Tommy’s eyes shift to his: wide, frightened. _Is he on something?_ Alfie runs a list of symptoms in his head, and simultaneously tries to remember if he’s got anything lying around the office. Morphine, opium, something of the sorts. Thank fuck he doesn’t. Just the whiskey, but that bottle was almost empty. Then again, they’re at a fucking brewery, if Tommy wanted alcohol, he could’ve quite literally drowned himself in it. But maybe his head gave up before he got that far. 

Just in the few seconds he’s taken to determine this, Tommy has once again turned his attention to the opposite wall. He brings a hand up to his mouth and bites an already bloodied knuckle. 

“Yeah, we ain’t doing that.” Alfie gently but firmly takes the hand, covers it with both of his own. Holds it tightly. “Fucking hell, mate, got to be careful with those nice hands.” Then he gets in Tommy’s line of sight, so that he’s forced to look at him with those too-wide, terrified eyes. Tommy’s breathing only grows more frantic. He’s shaking. 

“I can’t breathe,” he gasps and tries to pull himself free of Alfie’s hands. “I don’t know what’s happening- I can’t breathe- I can’t-“ 

“Sure you can,” Alfie says, forcing himself to sound calm. “You just have to do it a bit more slowly, yeah? Here, see-“ he takes the bloodied hand, places it over his own heart and breathes, slow, deep breaths that makes his chest rise and fall in an even rhythm. “Just like that.” 

Agonizingly slowly, Tommy falls into the same pattern as him, and the terror fades just a little from his eyes. 

They sit like that for a long time as Tommy fights to regain his bearings. A very long time. 

Until Tommy pulls his hand away, and Alfie thinks he can see the exact moment when the walls come back into place. No point in arguing. No point in doing anything at all really. 

“So, this is what will happen now, yeah?” he sighs. “I’m going to take you home. You’ll sleep for a few hours. We’ll take it from there.” No room for discussion. 

He stands up, pulls Tommy to his feet, and leads him out of the office. 

Outside, the night has begun to give way to a grey morning. One of those cold, damp things that shrouds London in thick fog. Alfie shrugs out of his coat and hangs it over Tommy’s shoulders. The gesture is left unacknowledged, but Tommy doesn’t take it off either. The garment makes him appear impossibly small and the sight would’ve made Alfie tease him fondly just a day ago, but now it just feels fucking painful. 

Not a word is said on the walk home. And when Alfie a while later sits Tommy down on the bed and pulls his boots off, before firmly pushing him down against the mattress, Tommy just rolls onto his side and turns his back against him. 

Alfie leaves the bedroom. 

...

Tommy comes downstairs a few hours later, now fully dressed. Some of that façade is back up, but there are cracks in it. A heavy weariness that seems to weigh him down. 

“I’m going back to Birmingham,” he says stiffly as he stands in the doorway to the kitchen, where Alfie is sat by the table with a pot of cold tea. His hands are behind his back, as to not show the injured knuckles.    

Alfie nods and grunts, “Figured.” For once, he doesn’t look at Tommy after that first initial glance. He doesn’t have it in him. Tommy can’t handle this, he knows. Things spiralled out of his control, and Alfie was there to see it. So now he has to leave. 

And when he finally looks up, Tommy is gone. The front door slams shut. 

...

A week passes. It’s a fucking nightmare, yeah? Alfie goes about his business as usual, with perhaps a streak of frenzy. Gets his office cleaned up, yells at Ollie, yells at Eli, yells at a lot of fucking people. Eats. Sleeps. Does it all over again in a loop. Tries to do absolutely anything but think of Tommy Shelby. Fails miserably. Thinks about calling. But doesn’t. Thinks about giving up that last shred of dignity – _fucking overrated, innit?_ \- and go to Birmingham. But doesn’t. When Ada calls and wonders what the fuck happened between them, his answers are all one-worded before he says he’s got shit to do. She goes into a whole long rant. 

“I’ll tell you one thing, Alfie Solomons: Tommy is what he is. And if there’s one thing he’ll never do, it’s chase after you. No matter what he feels. Sorry to say it. So if you care about him at all, you’ll get in your fucking car and come here before he actually manages to kill himself. If you give him time, who knows, maybe he’ll change. Maybe one day he’ll be able to meet you halfway. And I swear, if that day comes, then you’ve managed to do something no- one else in the entire bloody world has. But as of now, you just have to be the bigger man.” 

She hangs up. This is six days after the whole debacle. Alfie is up all night thinking. He can’t do this, he decides, he can’t be this important to another person. He can’t go and save Tommy from himself this time, because it’s a fucking impossible thing to do. 

The entire next day is more of the same. He’s in such a foul mood, his men avoid him like the plague, afraid of having a bullet put through their heads. 

And in the end, he decides to just throw caution to the wind, because that’s how he’s lived his life so far, might as well continue to do so. Fuck everything, he’ll go to Birmingham. He’ll do some more chasing. Thomas Shelby has ruined that last, functioning part of his brain. 

Alfie comes to this decision when it’s already well into the evening, because he’s spent about three hours staring at a bottle of rum and weighing between trying to drown his sorrows and actually doing something about them. 

The universe works in mysterious ways, he’s always thought. Or, actually never thought. But it feels like one of those things he could’ve, potentially thought. It does, anyway. Because his plight is interrupted by a sharp knock on the front door. He goes to open.

Tommy is standing there.   

If Alfie has been having a hard week, Tommy looks as if he’s been through absolute hell: eyes bloodshot and lined with dark circles, and his entire face laden with pain. Seems like he’s lost weight he can’t afford to lose. Got a split lip and bruises on his jaw too- _has he been in a fucking fight?_  

Alfie takes a step back, allowing him to come inside. 

“This is what I do,” Tommy says, voice unsteady. Quickly, before he has the chance to change his mind, it seems. “I ruin shit.” He takes a shaky breath. “Only a matter of time before I ruined this too. With my broken fucking head.” 

Alfie wonders if he’ll have to regret that choice of word for the rest of his life. 

“And- and I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know what to say-“ Tommy wraps his arms around his ribs, as if trying to keep himself from falling apart. “Because I need you, I need you so fucking bad. And I know that you don’t need me. So I- I’m scared that when you realise there’s nothing whole or good about me, you’ll leave.” 

There are tears in his eyes now, but he is clenching his jaw painfully tight and squeezes his eyes shut to hold them back, his whole body seemingly resisting the display of weakness. Tremors run through his slight frame like waves as he quite clearly does everything in his might not to let out a sob, and his knuckles whiten from the grip on his arms. He's trying so hard to keep it together. But there’s only so much a sleep deprived, utterly exhausted person can do, and the tears begin to seep down his cheeks. Everyone has a breaking-point, and it would seem like this is Tommy’s.   

For once in his life, Alfie Solomons chooses not to talk. Not at first, at least. Perhaps he shouldn’t forgive Tommy this easily: for saying all those things, trashing his fucking office, running away from it all. But he thinks of what Ada said on the phone: _Maybe one day he’ll meet you halfway_. 

He closes the distance between them and wraps Tommy in a tight hug. The kind of hug that makes broken pieces stick back together, if only for a moment. Tommy goes rigid in his embrace, and it’s like holding a tightly wound bundle of nerves, but Alfie doesn’t let go. He cradles his head against his chest. 

Slowly, slowly, the tension melts from Tommy’s body and he relaxes into the embrace. He is shaking, and Alfie realises it’s from barely contained sobs. He wonders when Tommy last cried against someone’s shoulder. Maybe never. 

“I don’t know what to do-“ Tommy chokes out. Alfie shakes his head, rubs circles on his back. 

“You don’t need to have the answers all the time, love,” he mutters into his hair. “We’ll figure it out. Because that’s how life works, ain’t it? Bet you anything that most of the time, no one fucking knows what they’re doing. We’re all just pretending and hoping no-one will notice.” 

He kisses his temple softly. 

“It’s fucking scary for me too,” he admits. “I ain’t very good at fixing things, yeah? But for what it’s worth, I promise to try to be careful. Not make things worse. Even though I’ve done sort of a shitty job at it. I’ll try. But you’ll have to try too. Otherwise this whole thing will just go to hell.” 

 

They end up on the couch, and Tommy cries. Not the sort of loud, hysterical crying that Alfie thinks is in order for a thing like this, just silent tears that stream down his cheeks. A quiet, choked sob every now and then. But he allows Alfie to hold him, and buries his face in the crook of his neck. They’ll work it up to the hysterics. Maybe they’ll come further down the line. On one of those bad nights. 

Tommy cries himself to sleep, and Alfie carries him upstairs, puts him to bed. Maybe this will just ruin shit. Maybe Tommy will wake up and run off again, because God forbid Tommy Shelby ever displays some kind of weakness. But right now, Alfie can’t be bothered to think about it. If this is ever going to work, at least one of them has to stop with the fucking games. Might as well be him. If Alfie Solomons can’t see through the bullshit, then who will? So he gets into the bed next to Tommy, pulls him close and sleeps better than he has in a week. 

...

He wakes up to find the bed empty. And yeah, it fucking hurts alright, to know that Tommy has disappeared again. An idiot, he is, for thinking that this could work. Although he’d like to just pull the blanket over his head and do something along the lines of _never fucking getting up again_ , or shoot someone –that would work too- he does neither of those things. Instead he just gets up. No point in lying here feeling sorry for himself. He’s Alfie fucking Solomons. But there’s a rather distinct pain in his chest as he walks downstairs. 

Though maybe sometimes, things don’t go straight to hell for people like him 

Because Tommy is in the kitchen, sitting on the countertop, smoking. _What is it with him and sitting on top of various pieces of furniture not meant for sitting?_ Feels good to have such a trivial thought, nice change from the last few days. Tommy is still wearing some of the clothes from last night, but a few of the layers are gone, leaving the vest and trousers. Bare feet and sleep mussed hair. He still looks tired. But there’s something new there too, maybe Alfie is imagining it but he thinks he can sense something akin to relief on his face. 

“Morning,” he says, staying on the threshold and leaning against the doorframe to take in the beauty of it all.   

“Morning.” Tommy lets out a stream of smoke through pursed lips. “I made tea.” 

“You still need to work on the food part of breakfast.” Alfie walks up to him, hands coming to rest lightly around his hips, needing to touch him after this eternity apart. “Would it kill you to fry a fucking egg once in awhile?” 

“Probably,” Tommy says, and quirks an eyebrow. “Not here to make your food. Get yourself a bloody cook, mate.” 

Alfie laughs at that. But then asks, sincerely, “Then why are you here?” 

Tommy gives a light shrug and looks down at his hands. “Because you are.” Alfie gives him time. Eventually, he finds the words. “I can’t promise shit, alright. I don’t know how to do… whatever it is you want me to.”

“Acknowledge that you just _may_ have some self-destructive tendencies?” Alfie says in a tone that a bit too light-hearted -because that’s how he feels right now, alright?- but he does mean it.   

“I’ll try. It’s the best I can do for now.” Tommy swallows.  “Is that enough?”

Alfie takes his face between his hands, lets himself get lost in those bright blue eyes for a moment. A very long moment. Tommy is rarely the first one to break eye-contact, a fact Alfie can only thank the grace of some higher being for. This time is no different. He looks at Alfie, truly looks at him. And there’s a promise there, alright. He runs his thumbs gently over the dark circles.

“Sure. It’s enough.” More than enough. Because Tommy Shelby has decided to meet him halfway

Tommy slumps forward a bit, rests his forehead against his shoulder. 

“I’m sorry,” he mutters. “For all that shit I said.” 

“Said my fair share of shit too.” Alfie strokes the back of his neck 

“You came anyway, that night. To your office.” 

“And you came here. Now.” 

They’re idiots, the pair of them, Alfie thinks. Maybe they deserve each other. There’s something oddly reassuring about that thought. 

“Right, I’ll fucking cook,” Alfie states and straightens up. “As usual. And you’ll eat. Meanwhile I’ll tell you some of my thoughts on large groups of deer –is that called a herd by the way? The fuck if I know- I’ve been considering this lately, yeah? See, one, two or even three deer are insignificant- also, pointless bloody animals those, but more on that later. But in groups of five or more, then they are fucking unsettling. You just don’t know about them, are they plotting something? And fucking glow-in-the dark eyes-”

Alfie talks about deer and fries eggs. And Tommy listens and smokes. Then they argue about whether deer are pointless or not. And things are alright. 


End file.
